


Does One Not Bring One's Habits To Aston Abbotts?

by ararelitus



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, M/M, Multi, Open Relationships, Polyamory, Portraits, Post-Canon Fix-It, Time Skips, an experiment in names and epithets, francis gets to have both handsomest men in the navy, in which I have a lot of feelings about names and legacy and JCRs paintings, it’s what he deserves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:15:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23063089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ararelitus/pseuds/ararelitus
Summary: They'd made a home here, all three of them, at the Abbey in Aston Abbotts.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames, Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames/Sir James Clark Ross, Captain Francis Crozier/Sir James Clark Ross, Lady Ann Ross/Sir James Clark Ross
Comments: 19
Kudos: 42
Collections: The Terror Bingo (2019)





	Does One Not Bring One's Habits To Aston Abbotts?

Francis woke, blinded by sunlight. 

Not yet fully alert, he took in all the warmth and comfort. The white bed linens and curtains softly billowing with the breeze made him question if he was even awake. 

He found his hand wrapped in silky curls and felt soft hands on his skin. 

“James?” he called. 

“I’m right here, Francis,” a low voice, like thick honey whispered in his ear. A long leg brushed against his under the covers. 

The thick covers weighed him down and the familiar scent of the lavender soaked pillows tempted him to turn back to sleep. 

“You know I’m here, Frank.” A figure would pass by the light, blurred and towering over Francis. 

“James, dear,” Francis said, sleep still clouding his voice. He reached his hand up, brushing a rough cheek not yet shaved, and tangled his finger in another set of long curls. 

Francis placed his other hand over the large one that was tracing patterns into his chest. 

“James, my love,” he whispered. 

Francis closed his eyes and sighed, wondering if this is what heaven felt like. 

He’d let himself have this. Just for a few more minutes. 

Francis was so tired these days, like all he’d endured, all these decades, had finally caught up to him. All the drinking and all the regret, and that last trek out of the Arctic - now he wanted to rest.

That was the beauty of his life now, he  _ could _ rest. His loves would let him sleep as late as he wanted, wrapped in their arms. No ship to command, no men to lead, just this last peace. 

“Perhaps it’s time to wake up, Francis,” that voice said again.

Francis goaned. 

In response, he felt soft kisses along his jaw and down his neck. 

It felt like a dream. Was it all a dream, did Francis look lest he find himself in the arctic again?

He opened his eyes. Two familiar faces stared down at him. 

Francis smiled.

~~~

They ought to call it the Captain’s Table, with the three of them seated around it. Three former adventurers in love, drinking tea.

To his left sat the James he saved and to his right the James who saved him. 

“What’s the blend today, darling?” the fiery haired James asked. 

“Well, I know neither of you are fond of Chinese teas now. So I thought we might opt for some Darjeeling this morning,” James the storyteller replied. 

Francis had only loved two men in his life, and here they were. They’d found something in each other too, something Francis would never quite understand. 

That thing that made a man leap out of a boat over frigid waters to climb a berg. The thing that made him grab a rocket and aim it at some terrible creature headed right for him. They both had it - perhaps, it was what drew Francis to them and made him fall so madly in love. 

Despite it all, they sat here with their long luscious locks - both now with streaks of grey - in impeccable waistcoats. Nothing on the surface would give way to the depths beneath, the sort of lives they’d lived, or the scars that covered one's body and the tremors that haunted the other. 

Francis had flavoured both those worlds, but he didn't look like _ that. _ He never looked like that. But what did it matter, when they were both at arm's reach, somehow still as enamoured with him as they were with each other?

~~~

“I think we must get a portrait painted of our darling James.”

Francis lay on a settee, his head resting on a thigh draped over with a soft dressing gown. Hands combed through his hair.

Another man stood across the room in front of a mirror, staring at his own reflection. “You think so?” He said, and a lock of his dark hair behind his ear. 

“James dear, think he’s vain enough on his own, doesn’t need your influence too,” Francis said and sighed. 

Though, to have a portrait of James Fitzjames hung next to James Clark Ross would be a dream. What a pair they make, the handsomest men in the navy, with Francis standing in the middle, like a goose framed by swans. 

“Come now, Frank. Shouldn’t a man so handsome deserve a portrait?” The hand in his hair stilled. 

“You’d be right on that account,” Francis answered, staring at the impeccable figure admiring the cut of his new fashionable clothes. 

“I’d like to see a portrait of Francis too, just like yours.” The portrait-less James approached the settee. 

Francis reached his hand out to meet those long elegant fingers he so liked. He brought Francis’ hand up to his lips and kissed his knuckles. Francis stared at those lines that framed his lips - another feature he admired. 

“Fitz, darling, I’ve tried to get a portrait of Frank here commissioned for over a decade, and every time, he refuses.”

Francis never wanted one before, he never had the means and he wouldn’t take Sir James Clark Ross’ money for such frivolous things. Now, he wondered if maybe he should have, when he was younger, when his eyes were brighter and his hair less grey.

“Think I’ve missed my chance now,” Francis murmured. 

“Nonsense.”

“Yes Francis, why not indulge us?”

It would make them so happy, wouldn’t it? A reason simple as that would be enough. 

“Well, I don’t intend to spend hours sitting for it.”

The long face in front of him lit up into a wide smile. Francis felt a hand pat his shoulder. 

Yes, this would be worth it all. 

~~~

“Oh the blue is marvelous, brings out your eyes, dear,” other James said, in that low voice. “Don’t you think so, Francis?”

Two men twirled around in finery in front of Francis as he sat back on the settee. He knew nothing of this world, never thought he’d care - not until now. The two of them knew Francis would never understand, nor be able to offer advice, but he loved to be included.

“Of course, James,” Francis said. 

“Ah, and that print is marvelous on you darling!” the original James said, in his lighter voice.

It was something violet and floral, nothing Francis would dare wear. Francis never got excited about these things, but James, both his Jameses, did. 

The first James reached for the other with his hands, embracing him, running his hands across the fabric. Now, Francis was curious about what it felt like. 

They'd made a home here, all three of them, at the Abbey in Aston Abbotts. 

Yes, James his First had married. Years later, Francis did too - in every way but on paper. If a marriage was devoting yourself to someone through thick and thin, with James his Second Francis went through it all. 

Instead of a honeymoon it was a slow and painful recovery. So the two of them, suffocating in London, had come to stay here and never left. 

The two figures before him melted into one as they kissed, and Francis smiled. 

He thought of the first time they had kissed. The two handsomest men in the Navy, so incredibly nervous around each other. 

James Fitzjames was hesitant to share a bed under this roof. James Clark Ross was unsure if he should so much as embrace Francis in the other’s company. 

The evenings they would spend sharing stories. Francis had heard them, lived some of them, but watching fresh eyes stare in wonder had been a gift of its own. 

Months went by like that, until the night one stood and walked across the room to kiss the other. 

“Francis, come join us.”

“Yes, don’t just sit there Frank, up you get old man.”

Two hands reached out to him, and Francis took them gladly. 

~~~

“I should rename those islands, I thought it was a good idea when I bought the place and now...”

Francis sat in the garden, a head of red hair rested on his shoulder. 

“I think we ought to leave them, as a reminder,” he said. 

“I doubt we need any more reminders,” said the other man, spread out on the ground beside him. His fingers intertwined with Francis’. 

“There are two mountains on the other side of the world we named to remember those ships, in happier times.”

“What would you suggest?” Francis asked.

“Perhaps we name them after their Captains instead. Islands Fitzjames and Crozier.”

“I do like the sound of that,” the man beside him said. He rested a hand on Francis’ thigh. 

“James dear has a habit of naming things after me, I see that extends to you now, not that I imagine you mind.”

“Certainly not.”

They were all writing their memoirs now. Francis knew them both so completely now, he wondered if he should be their biographer instead of bothering with his own. 

Then again, how would he know how to embellish the right tales, or what stories to hide; the necessary vanities that were so crucial now. 

James Clark Ross had all the fame and glory he had wanted - and wanted no longer. That memoir would be straightforward. What details he did not remember, Francis surely would. 

James Fitzjames never got his due in the limelight, an illustrious career cut short by tragedy. He still craved it, Francis knew. For all his carefully crafted words meant to bait and entertain, distract from the secrets and details that didn’t add up, he was still too young to be writing his memoirs.

Francis was glad neither would return to sea. He didn’t know how he’d survive such a thing, he couldn’t bear to be separated from either. 

~~~

Francis stared at the three paintings that hung together on the wall. 

Of course, just because Francis had his done, the other two wanted a full matching set. 

Francis looked at his own stern face staring back at him. He looked like a proper sea captain. Did he always look like that? Did he even want to?

“You boys and your paintings.”

Francis turned to see Ann standing behind him. 

“Don’t include me in this. I had no part in this, they pressed me to do it.”

“Oh I know, Frank.” She walked to stand beside him. “Doesn’t he look handsome? Our James.”

He and Ann shared one of them, yes, but there was more than enough love to go around. 

“Yes. They both do.” 

All decked out in furs and dress uniforms, one gilded James and then the other. 

“I don't know how you manage, with both of them named James, and I only have the one.”

“Practice, perhaps.” Francis looked between the portraits. They were perfect mirrors of each other, and yet, entirely different. It was in the subtle things, the way they spoke to Francis, or touched him. The differences in the lives they’d lead showed across their faces and in their words. 

In fact, Francis never truly struggled with the distinction. 

“Where would we be without our dashing explorers.” Ann sighed. 

“Lost. Most certainly.”

Without them, Francis would still be somewhere in the Arctic, wandering the great white nothing. 

~~~

Francis lay in the bed, moonlight filtering in through the window, with his two lovers surrounding him. He could get lost in all the touches and kisses rained upon him, but he cherished these silent moments after. 

“James dear,” he whispered to the man laying in front of him with his arm flung over Francis’ waist.

He was always James dear, or dearest James. James who was as exhausted as Francis but hid it too well. Old friend James,  _ oldest friend _ , truest friend, his first love. 

The man behind Francis, pressed against him and pulled him closer, leaving a kiss on his shoulder. 

“James, my love.”

Yes, his love James, darling James. The one that never wanted to be cold again. James he’d wasted so much time ignoring. James he’d nearly lost. 

James, the name had lost meaning to him once, seeming foreign and distant. Strange sounds and a sequence of movements in his mouth.  _ James _ now seemed to take on a new meaning, one synonymous with love. 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this while listening to Chopin at the very early late hours of the night, I wonder if it shows. 
> 
> Well, I hope you enjoyed this. I've been having a lot of feelings about these three and both Rossier and Fitzier so I thought... WHY NOT BOTH. This was also meant to be written after a short pre-canon rossier thing I'm working on but that's now.... not short. 
> 
> Terror Bingo fill for "know I'm here" - how my mind got from there to here.... *it's all connected conspiracy meme here*
> 
> Comments are greatly appreciated <3


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